"There is one thing," I put in, while scrolling through files on my wristcomp. When I found that waveform that John had showed us on the conference call, I pushed it to the others' Tri-D displays. "I found this while digging through background radio chatter."
"What is it?" one of the engineers asked.
"Not sure," I said. "Comm signal? It doesn't correspond to anything else in the records."
They all studied it, and interacted with the data for a bit.
Brand considered our options broodingly for several minutes as we batted (mostly speculative) ideas back and forth about the interplay of some fine details in the waveform. Then, quite unexpectedly, he announced that we could all leave early.
"I need to talk to Seven Kytoro," he told us, and just walked out, already on the horn to the man's office.
Team officer CPS07 Hanji Kytoro was facilitating inter-communications between the various Special Assignment groups, like ours, that were working on this problem. We'd met him once, briefly, during the week, when he'd stopped by for a quick word about something with our own Seven. Presumably, if Brand had an idea, and it required Seven Kytoro's help or permission, it had something to do with the other SpecSigns.
I mentioned this aloud as we sort-of lingered there. On the one hand, it seemed like a blistering meeting with the leaders of the three Departments under investigation was nigh, wherein threats would be raised, and accusations of obstruction would be made. On the other hand, such things had already been tried (and we had the transcripts to prove it). They simply weren't talking -- not to us, nor each other. And no one looking into the problem apparently had the juice to make them do so.
I'd no idea what Brand had decided to do, but this gave me a couple hours free in the middle of the day -- an unexpected treat.
I was all set up to meet Dieter at the pub later on, but at the moment, I was without obligations.
As I walked along a quiet avenue over near one of the clerical departments, I decided to call Shady Lady and see what was up. By Mavis' tone of voice the other day, I could tell that she, and really all of them, were feeling cut-off and vulnerable. There was still plenty of time for people to make stupid mistakes, so I thought I should do my part to allay their fears. That wasn't my strong suit, normally, but the situation was hardly normal.
Stinna picked up, and just looked at me. She didn't say anything, yet she must have seen me staring back at her.
"Um...hi...?"
"Hi."
"How's it going?"
"Okay."
"Good. That's, um...that's good. Can I talk to Mavis?"
"She's sleeping."
"She's...oh! Really? Okay, well, good for her. She hasn't laid down since we woke her up that time, right?"
She just shrugged as if she didn't know. Or didn't care. Or maybe couldn't care.
"Right. How about Chris?"
"Hold on."
Her face went away. There was nothing then for long seconds, though the connection was still up. Chris finally came into view, hovering as a blurry, distorted image in the middle of my line of sight.
"Woh, what's up with the camera?" I asked, because having a blurry smudge in my point-of-view was very distracting. I even stopped and leaned against a bulkhead.
"What do mean?" he asked. "I can see you."
"You're all out of focus."
The blur seemed to fiddle with settings for a bit, mumbling that everything looked good, then reached forward to the actual camera. The image was obscured entirely for a moment, then came back slightly better. I could at least see that it was Chris instead of an amorphous blob. But he was still a greatly fuzzy fellow, hovering there in the center of my perspective, so I cut the video part of the feed entirely.
"Sorry," he supplied, "I spilled some sauce earlier when I was eating. I'll get it cleaned up. What's going on?"
"Just checking in. Have you heard from Dieter? Is he still on for later?"
"Yeah, he is. He called in a few hours ago. Look, we're going to have to limit this kind of contact, Ejoq. Important stuff only. You understand? It's a risk, despite the precautions."
"Oh. It is? I thought that...but, um...yeah. Of course. Sure. When would you like to hear from me?"
"How about after you and Dieter come up with an action plan? Then we'll go over it together."
"Dieter and I are coming up with the plan?"
"You're the ones in place."
"Ah. Well, I guess I'll talk to you later then."
"Okay, Ejoq. Thanks for calling in."
And then the connection closed.
* * *
Dieter was a hit with the gang.
I broke the ice when he came in to the pub, muttering to Barney that he looked familiar. I then stepped up to the bar, where he was placing a breakfast order. The place had a limited food menu, and, in an all-day, all-night environment like this, it was always breakfast time for someone. He was close enough for the gang to hear, so I asked him if he was so-and-so from such-and-such place. He said no, and corrected me with a witty reply, and we just punted from there.
I had primed him about the smackball obsession of the group, and it turned out he was a fan of the pro leagues anyway. This meant he had things to talk about, and he was everyone's newest friend by the time he was running late for work. It was smooth -- just smooth. We made a show of exchanging contact info all around the table, formed a tentative commitment to get together as a group the next week (a two-day holiday was coming up in the Corporate Territories, commemorating some historical event or other), and we bid him good-shift.
I kept drinking. It wasn't breakfast time for me.
Though no teetotaller, I generally avoided excessive alcohol consumption; it could be both expensive and lonesome. That night, though, with company on hand, I ordered some mid-shelf graino from the tall waitress, telling her to leave the bottle. Barney's crew was impressed, graino being a relatively recent import in this area of space. It had a sketchy reputation, and someone commented humorously that it was a true drunk's weapon of choice. That made me laugh, but also put to mind some other things I didn't want to think about, related to its planet of origin, so I just pounded shot after shot.
Or so it seemed then. By the time Barney cut me off with a Papa Bear's gentle concern, I hadn't really made much of a dent in the bottle -- but it had made one in me.
I'd been relating a muddled tale of crowds, and fighting, and a woman I had hardly known but still missed terribly, and I was tearing up. I snapped at him when he dragged the squat plastic bottle out of my reach, but I immediately regretted it, and apologized. The tears did flow then, and he said goodbye for both of us, leading me off home.
The next morning, I cursed the alarm function of my wristcomp and retinals heartily, and crawled to a sitting position with a mood so rotten I doubted I'd be able to stand my own company for the remainder of the day -- a day that was just starting. Graino had a rep for causing legendary hangovers, mostly because of some poor quality brands with wide distribution. Even the good stuff could put a vice on your temples if you overdid it, though...and I had.
I fished out an analgesic nerveblock strip from one of the drawers in the fresher, and placed in on my throbbing head, enjoying a near-instantaneous reduction of pain. It wasn't perfect relief, since over-the-counter nerveblocks were only so effective, but it was a start.
Barney was already gone, so when a call came in from Dieter while I was sitting there, I didn't have to lower my voice or act all cagey (which I couldn't have managed anyway).
"Something's wrong," he said without preamble, concern in his voice.
"Yeah...?"
"Are you okay? You look hung over."
"Humph! As if you could tell!"
"What's that mean? Listen, I just called our old friends, and I think they have a problem."
"You know, I talked to them myself, yesterday, but...I thought they just hated me."
"Well, you can be pretty hateful, Ejoq."
"Thanks,"
I replied, his humor (or truth) not helping my head, stomach, or disposition.
"But...that's not what I mean. Our particular friend was asleep when you called?"
"Yeah, she was."
"Well, she's still asleep," he stated, disquiet etched into his words and face. "And that seems like a long time to me."
"I wouldn't know if it is, to be honest. She missed a lot of shut-eye up until now. Maybe she's making up for it while she has a chance...?"
He thought for a moment, then looked at one of the doodads he wore on his sleeve.
"I want to go see if something's wrong," he said at last. "That maintenance round at the closet should have come and gone already. Can you meet me, and keep watch until I'm in the clear?"
"I have to work. I'm going to be late as it is if I keep dragging."
"I just need you there for a few minutes..."
This was not a thing I wanted to deal with just then, but he obviously did, and it would be a bad shift for everyone if he got caught crawling into the fire shaft. Besides, helping him was why I was out here to begin with -- why I had to maintain a life and lifestyle that were both my own and not, at the exact same time. For that matter, it was why I had to investigate my own battle, and the incompetance (or duplicity) of the people who had brought it about.
"Okay, sure. I'll meet you there."
He thanked me, and rang off. I'd sat down on the edge of my bed as we were talking, and now caught a glimpse of myself in the small mirror feed on the wall in the fresher, the door there wide open and beckoning me to come and make myself human. Really, I looked like one of Mavis' hobos, stowing away across the stars, hiding from security and humanity -- unwashed, unkempt, and largely unknowable.
Somehow I rose to my feet.
Somehow I tottered to the fresher.
Somehow, I showered and dressed, and made it out the door in just a few minutes.
I was able to do all these things, and even smile at the coffee jock at my favorite place as he pulled me a double shot and charged it to my purchase account.
Dieter was sitting on the bench near our closet, and I plopped down next to him.
He acknowledged me and we exchanged some banal pleasantries out loud, but he also called me on comm, so we could whisper back-and-forth that way.
"I'll hang out up there until you get off work?"
"Sounds good. Around 17:30? I'll call to let you know when I'm out here again."
"All right. Well, I'm off."
With this, he casually looked around and got up with a sigh, like it had been a long shift and he was heading home. In a way, he was. He kept the connection live, so I could warn him, sotto voce, should anybody try and get in while he was getting himself suited up.
Easily, like he did it every day, Dieter swiped his ring key, now loaded with stolen maintenance codes from SS1 and SS2, over the IDent pad in the wall. He disappeared inside, and shut the door with a gentle click. I looked up, very much feeling the brightness of the companionway. It was an avenue really, as there was a vehicle lane in the center. I watched for security, or workers, or suspicious persons, or just somebody headed for the closet for whatever reason.
But nobody was.
Instead, people bustled, walked, or sauntered by, going about their daily lives, not even seeing the chubby fellow on the bench sipping his coffee -- a guy who was now washed and kempt, maybe, but still largely unknowable.
After about five minutes of silence on the line, Dieter informed me that he was now in the shaft, with the grating closed up behind him. I hadn't heard any sounds from the closet over the noise of the foot and vehicular traffic, all our fears about drawing attention that way proving groundless. This was good news on a day already starving for some, and it lifted my spirits. The engineer informed me he had just called Shady Lady on a separate line, so they were expecting him, even beyond the movement alarm sounding up there. I wished him luck, then hurried off to work, just like normal...just like everyone else.
I was barely on-time to the office -- the last one in.
Our little group wasn't alone.
This day, we also had two Team Offs I didn't know, in dress grays, as well as VP Bailey and some other stranger -- this one a red-haired guy, silent, pasty, and well-dressed in a light gray suit. When I came in, our Vice-President In Charge Of Whatever It Was gave me the hairy eyeball for making them wait to the last minute, then started in with her Very Pressing Business. One of the officers went and stood by the door, as if to prevent anyone from coming or going. I wasn't concerned, because there were no armed guards with these guys. They weren't here to make arrests, but it was a break in the newly-minted routine of the group, and felt urgent and unsettling.
"We've decided on a proactive approach to the problem of information gathering," VP Bailey stated, standing up. She intro'd the officers, ignored the guy in the nice suit, and proceeded to explain stuff about the situation we already knew, and indeed, had been the ones to codify for her office. When she felt like she'd expressed herself to her own satisfaction, she nodded once, and stalked off, the quiet fellow and those new officers following in her wake.
Looking around, I could tell that not one of us understood what was going on. Except for Brand.
"Sorry about that," he said, getting to his feet. "Okay, here it is. It's a joint decision of the different investigative teams that Station Admin, SSC, and R&D are failing to cooperate with the inquiry. They feel threatened, apparently, and are, all three, stonewalling at every opportunity."
He spoke with conviction and more than his usual gravity. While his statement was true enough, it also seemed so horrifically corporate and bureaucratic in that moment, I could have spit on the floor. Looking around with my bloodshot eyes in that too-bright room, all I could see then were people mired in appearance and policy -- smart, hard-working folks, hamstrung by the insensible policies and mores of Corporatespace -- up to their necks, every day, fighting backroom battles and personality disorders all over the station. I liked these guys, frankly, but the job was crippled by a set of social graces so subtle I couldn't see the things in action, let alone anticipate their lead.
This had become clear to me over the previous week, with certain information being declared Unavailable, [with a capital U,] because this important person or that important person had been uncooperative when spoken to, or unwilling to even meet with us. Going in and confiscating vital information from the people we thought might actually have some was seen as a huge violation of...something.
Understand, such action wouldn't be counter to the actual rules, since our power to investigate the situation had come directly from Upper Management, nor did it run afoul of necessity, by any means. Yet each department was looking like a fiefdom all its own, and you don't invade a kingdom unless you're willing to start a war.
Our job, therefore, had been incredibly hard from the start, though I may have been the only one who hadn't understood that: we were to ferret out the truth, and expose what had gone wrong -- but without stepping on too many toes.
It was ludicrous!
In the Alliance (or anywhere else) something like this would have put every person involved under a burning spotlight. Indeed, the investigative process would likely have shut the program down cold until all answers were obtained, and the chips could fall where ever they may. Here, however, investigators were expected to get those same kinds of results without torpedoing company initiatives or certain people's careers.
In other words, to be a bull tiptoeing around a china shop -- 'cause if you break 'em you bought 'em.
I couldn't stifle an acidic laugh, despite myself. The others looked at me with knowing nods that made it plain they mistook my disgust for wryness. The hangover was not letting up.
"Where does that leave us, then, sir?" one of the Fleet gunners asked.
"Unfortunately," Brand replied, looking us all over, while I sat on the edge of a desk trying to ignore my headache (I'd shed the nerveblock at some point, and had forgotten
to replace it), "that leaves us with the need to get some of our own eyes and ears in there. One group has a few members going in to Admin. Another is targeting SSC. We've been selected to supply people for R&D."
"What do mean by supply?" somebody queried (I'm not sure who -- I wasn't focusing).
"We're asking certain members of the investigative groups to obtain work positions in those Departments with the express purpose of continuing the inquiry. These must be people currently unfamiliar to anyone in there, which leaves me out immediately, since I've conducted so many interviews. Two more of us are already known to several different employees in R&D, having worked with them in the past, according to records. And, for legal reasons, no Team officers or personnel can be directly involved in a subterfuge of this nature. That only leaves Kwon and Ejoq..."
At the mention of my name, I looked up at him, at everyone, through pounding fog and disassociating cynicism. Kwon was standing next to me. I hadn't noticed. The Seven had an earnest manner which might have been compelling in other circumstances, but at that moment, the best I could manage was a slow game of catching-up.
"Gentlemen," he asked, his eyes on first one, then the other of us, "how would you feel about doing some undercover work?"
OOOOOOOOOO
I expected they'd keep us waiting there for some time, but the opposite turned out to be true.
Montaro Admin reps, direct from Corporate HQ and elsewhere, arrived only ten hours after the hand-off. They then blazed over from the jump point in a very sporty passenger boat that didn't head for Bluelight Station, or even Wildcard.
It came straight to Citystate.
I was told a meeting that required my presence would be held in a couple of hours, and that I should make myself available. That was smirk-worthy, since I had nowhere to go aboard the carrier, and nothing whatsoever to do. Indeed, this meeting was probably the only reason I was aboard.
They gave me a visitor's pass that would allow for some onboard site-seeing under escort, but was then shown to a small lounge and asked to wait. They didn't even lock the door (though a guard was posted outside, who smiled and asked if I needed anything every time I stuck my head out). An hour in, there was a knock, and a steward came through with some sandwiches and a carafe of coffee. Everyone was very polite and solicitous.
Risk Analysis (Draft 04 -- Reading Script) Page 20